Life on the Other Side
by Tesefel
Summary: Snape is wounded in the Final Battle between the 'good' and Voldemort, and is saved by a muggle. The only problem is that he has absolutely no idea where he is...and how exactly was he healed so fast? SnapeOC


A/N: Nope. None of it's mine.

The man in dark robes staggered from the woods, his tall, thin figure hunched over as if in pain. One hand was hidden under his black cloak; the other was clenched around a white mask and a slender piece of wood, like a polished stick. He came across a low stone wall running around a large field, and carefully stepped over it. He managed a few dozen steps across the field before collapsing in the tall grass. Severus Snape let out a muted groan, gazed blearily at his bloody right hand, and fainted.

Margaret Sewell, known to her friends and family as Meg, looked up from the kitchen sink in time to see something large and dark drop into the knee-high grass. Her hands kept drying the dishes while she stared out the window, waiting for whatever-it-was to show up again above the weeds. When it didn't for over five minutes, she stacked the bowls and cups, pulled out the plug in the drain, and ran out into the warm June air.

When she reached the middle of the north field she could see a trail of bent grass extending from both sides of the drystone wall, on the outside going all the way to the edge of the woods. She jogged to the crooked line running into the centre of the field and followed it toward the house, mentally preparing herself for an attack from some intruder or animal. She was both pleasantly and unpleasantly surprised to find an apparently unconscious person huddled in the grasses; she was safe from an attack, but what was she to do? Just to be sure, she knelt over the prone figure and rolled it over a bit.

It was a man, in his thirties, maybe, wearing a black cloak and, under that, what looked like long dark robes. His right arm was tucked across his middle; when Meg tugged on it, it came away covered with blood. _His_ blood, she suspected; his clothes seemed to be soaked with it. He was much too big to drag, she mused, feeling surprisingly calm, and it probably wouldn't do much good for whatever injury he had, either; Meg ran back through the field after taking careful note of where the stranger lay, detoured through the house to pick up her keys, and started up the pickup she kept in the shed next to the house.

It only took a moment to back up next to the spot where the man lay, and then alongside of him. it was a bit longer before Meg got him into the cab, since he was very tall, and his legs and arms kept getting in the way, and no matter how gently she tried to take them, he–or his hand–would not let go of the objects he gripped. With him finally bundled on the seat, Meg drove as fast as she could to the house without dumping the man onto the floor. At the kitchen she stood for a while in the doorway, wondering how to get the man inside without dragging him across the floor. Then her gaze alighted on the kitchen chairs. She yanked one out from under the table, almost upsetting the other three, carried it out to the truck, and opened the passenger door.

Meg was just in time to catch the man as he tumbled out of the cab, nearly falling onto her in the process. He was heavy! She just managed to dump him in the chair before she dropped him. Meg made a mental note to clean the large smear of blood from the inside of the cab door before pushing it shut. She then got behind the wooden chair, turned so her back was to the kitchen door, and tilted the chair back ever so carefully. With no small amount of teetering, catching on rugs, and cursing, Meg hauled the chair and its cargo through the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the large bathroom connected to the master bedroom, which was, luckily for her, on the ground floor. She lowered the stranger to the floor as gently as she could and stretched him out, gasping as his cloak fell away from his body.

The left side of his robes was torn, as though cut open, showing through to his side, which was very bloody; Meg couldn't see much more than that. Also, smeared across his clothes were big streaks of mud that Meg was positive must have gotten into his cut, and by the brutal look of said cut, it didn't need any help being ghastly. Unable to do anything until she could get at him properly, Meg set about removing his robes.

It was an all-too-lengthy endeavour, since the entire front of the robe under the cloak fastened with small silver buttons. It looked loose enough to pull off, but in his prone state that would be impossible, so Meg began to pop the buttons open one by one. After what seemed like at least an hour, during which her fingers fumbled innumerable times from nervousness and his wound continued to bleed sluggishly, the front of the robe lay open.

This was not the end of it, she found when she saw the formerly white, now largely crimson button-down shirt and button-fly trousers. In frustration she tore the shirt open, sending buttons flying across the room and nearly losing an eye, and wrenched the sleeves of the shirt and robe down his left arm so she could get at his side. She almost threw up at the sight of his ribcage, the flesh there torn and discoloured almost beyond recognition; it looked like something out of a butcher shop. And she had been right about the mud; bits of dirt and what looked like ground stone was embedded in the gruesome gash across his ribs, emphasizing the need for haste in cleaning the skin of all the contaminants there.

After a moment to gather her thoughts, Meg dashed to the kitchen. There she filled the largest stainless steel bowl she could find with hot water. She grabbed what she called an 'industrial-size' bar of soap, made that spring by her grandmother and sent as one of a large batch, all smelling of lard and lye but remarkably effective; and she _knew_ there was nothing weird in it. A clean dishcloth completed her preparations and she went back to the bathroom as quickly as she could with the brimming bowl of steaming water. Hoping against hope that the stranger had woken, she wasn't really surprised to find him in exactly the same position, all sprawled out on the floor and gradually redecorating the tiles around him with a splotchy red.

Meg winced at all the blood and fairly dove at him, glad for her strong stomach and praying the small experience she had had in first aid would pull both of them through this. Meg had never even considered calling the hospital, since it was over half an hour away and she doubted eh wisdom of moving the man any more, after all the tossing around she had been doing with his unsuspecting helpless body.

Meg carefully dabbed at the stranger's mangled side, pressing lightly to soak up the blood. She wrung out the sponge and mopped up more blood, finally unearthing the unnaturally white skin of his side under the smeared red.

Fortunately for both the stranger and her peace of mind, the blood had already begun to clot; she was able to clean his side almost completely, without more red flooding out and staining his flesh all over again. Meg wished she had the equipment to make stitches in what now looked unnervingly like a knife-wound, as if someone had slashed him with one, but her supplies and knowledge did not extend that far (although she thought she could probably manage to figure out stitches without too much difficulty). Meg sighed and ensured that his clothes had been entirely peeled back from his side, leaving the whole nasty gash exposed. Closing her eyes, she leaned over the strange man lying wounded on her bathroom floor.

A/N: Please read and review!


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